Szary to kolor miłości. / Stop touching me with your eyes. / Teach me how to gracefully let go of things not meant for me. //“Quit saying you don’t have time. You have time for what you make time for in life.”

I’ve spent most of my life chasing the person I want to be. Because 20-year-old me will have better friends, and 25-year-old me will land a killer job, and 30-year-old me will be madly in love. And me 6 months from now will be skinnier, and me a year from now will be more confident, and me some time from now will be better somehow. So much better. For years, this is what I thought. That if I could just wait it out, everything would get better.
     It took me a long time to realize that life doesn’t work that way. Because older doesn’t mean happier or easier, and it certainly doesn’t mean better; it just means older. Life isn’t a well plotted screen play, or a checklist, or, God forbid, some waiting room. We have got to stop waiting. Because life isn’t about growing up to be all that we’ve ever wanted; it’s just about growing. 
     It’s about love, and change, and crying yourself to sleep when it’s all too much. And working at a burger joint, and kissing your best friend even though he might not like you back, and calling your mom every Sunday because you miss her like hell. It’s fights, and promotions, and hospital visits. And then it’s this: another wedding of another one of your college friends, the third one this year, but this time you meet a groomsman who’s just as down on love and you dance all night. And this: he cries when you say “I do.” And this: a kid with your eyes and his dorky ears. 
      Or maybe not. Maybe it’s this: you write everything, everywhere, all the time, even when the prettier kids make fun of you, and the short teacher with the big nose tells you it’s good. Really good. And this: you’re living in a shoebox, by the skin of your teeth, but there’s a bar across the street that lets you read your poetry, and evey time you do, someone in the crowd finally knows what it feels like to be understood. And this: your words being published. Your words. Being bought by people who could be spending their money on anything at all. And you sit in your twin bed where you’ve written your entire novel, a dozen empty coffee mugs still dirty on the nightstand, and you scream until your lungs burn. 
      It’s all of these things, and bad things, and good things, and the raw realization that it doesn’t get better or worse, it just gets different. It just changes. Always, always changes. And somehow that makes it more wonderful. Because future you may have the friends, and the boy, and the job, but she didn’t get it by waiting around. She is a product of you. Right now, tomorrow, changing and growing every moment that follows. She is kind, and breathing, and beautiful. But she waits for the day she doesn’t have to worry about paying a mortgage bill, and she worries too often about what people think of her. She still doesn’t have it together.
     And maybe that’s what I’ve learned after all this time: nobody has it together. We’re all just here, floundering around in pursuit of being something more. Broken, thoughtful creatures with too much time on our hands, desperate for the companionship of someone who reminds us that we are not alone. We don’t have much of anything figured out. Maybe we never will. But more importantly, I think that’s how it’s supposed to be.

"I don’t want to spend all this time avoiding whatever it is that’s between us and never get our chance.”
     She swallowed and asked, “But what if we ruin it?" 
     "I know,” he said. “But what if we don’t?

What are you so scared of?”
     Nothing, she nearly told him. But what she meant was everything. Footsteps in the dead of night, and spiders, and loneliness. Angry boys with quick hands and pretty girls who pocketed secrets. The way things changed: always and without warning. Government conspiracies and medical jargon. And space. Fucking space. Black holes and time warps and the fact that anything at all could exist without boundaries. What scared her? So much, she thought, so very much. But more than anything, “You.

Sometimes I miss you when we’re in the same room. The same bed. I don’t know how to have you close enough, and it frightens me.

“But what if I never love anyone like I loved him?”
     "You won’t,“ he said, “You’ll love again, but it will be different.”
     She looked up at him, and he swore he saw hope alive in her eyes. Or maybe it was desperation. The line between the two had always been so thin.
     Either way he promised, “It will be better.”

Everything about us was electric. From the moment we met, shy eyes peeking past the people that separated us, it was like falling through the sky. Topsy turvy and clutching hands and flipping stomachs. We touched each other like we might never have another night, tip toeing around words like forever. We only understood this moment, that moment. Here, now. But we called it love, and those moments never drifted too far. 
     Electric. Late nights of too much vodka and other lonely souls that smoked with us in silence and skin that screamed for more and more and more. But mouths that screamed, too. At one another because that boy looked at me for too long, and you forgot your credit card again, and commitment was a word you never understood. Screaming for more and more and more. More than this and that and here and now. Blood rushing from our hearts to our heads as we fell and fell and fell through the sky. Love, we called it. As if a four letter word could keep us from crashing.
     But it took me a long time to realize that love isn’t falling. Or crashing. Or electric. It isn’t uncertainty and pain and being so scared you forget why you jumped in the first place. No, love isn’t falling at all; it's landing.

The room could full of all the people I’ve loved and all the people I will love, and I’d still run into your arms.
Every single time, I would choose you.

– and you’d never choose me.

It’s hard to think about the end. Because there was no end, not really. We didn’t fight or cheat or lie. It isn’t as if I can pinpoint the moments we began to crack. Mornings drifting into days and weeks and months, so slowly we hardly recognized it was happening at all. We just stopped loving each other. Forgetting how to hold and understand and revere. Lazy nights spent on the couch, and moments of missing you, and unanswered calls. Unanswered everything. Sometimes that’s the hardest part of it all: not knowing why.

It goes like this: he holds you like a question mark and you never wonder why. Lanky limbs and cold coffee, but when he presses you close, you forget to ask where he goes in the middle of the night. No promises, he says, and you think that’s sweet. Because maybe the world is cruel and some prettier girl broke his heart. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Whispered, half way past the moon, an I love you followed only by breathing. And even though you know he’s awake, you learn how to pretend.
It goes like this: he doesn’t come back one day. He grows out his hair and starts smoking on the patio of someone else who believes in mending broken pieces. Your mother says she told you so, and your friends pour tequila down your throat like some kind of consultation prize. They tell you he’s a fool, and you let them think you agree. And you tear, and you crash, and you crave, but you survive. At night, you whisper this into your pillow, and begin to remember that he smelled like secrets and women and somehow, you confused this with hope.
It goes like this: he holds her like a lifeline and you begin to wonder why. But chicken legs and frigid waters, you always knew you weren’t enough. And when you forget how to pretend, curled like a child under the covers of a bed that is suddenly bigger than all the world, you’ll learn how to forgive yourself or maybe just how to hate yourself, but at least you’re beginning to understand yourself.
Let me tell you  a story I wish I’d known. It goes like this: we break our own damn hearts.
If you spend your whole life wondering what it’s like to be pretty like her and smart like him, you’ll never fully appreciate what it’s like to be everything you already are.

Find someone who makes you laugh at the things that once bored you. Just find that person and let yourself fall.

I think some small part of me will always love him the way we love everything we want and, by some act of God, get, even if only for a moment: a distant wonder, a thankfulness that it existed at all.

People will make you promises they cannot keep. And they will cut you at the knees to protect what is theirs. They will make you think you are less than you are. Lie. Cheat. Steal. People will wreck you. But people will also hold you. And they will press your sojourning soul back into your body when you forget how to hold it close. They will laugh so hard their ribs nearly tear at the seams, cross oceans to hold their favorite person in their arms, and ring a bell to let you know they have arrived at your home. Because people are cruel and beautiful and breathing and although they are not perfect, they are all we will ever need.

I lose myself so easily. In places and in moments, but mostly in people. Sometimes I wish I had tourist maps of every person who ever abandoned me in their alleyway of a soul, leaving me waiting like an idiot for the city lights to flicker back to life.

Stop saying he broke your heart. You are not glass. You are not fragile. And one day, the blood in your veins will sing for something more than a boy with hands too small to hold all that you offer.

There is no such things as a good guy or a bad guy. People are more than their stormiest nights, their most charitable days. This world we live in is gray. All of it.
Especially us

Don’t trust anyone who looks up at the sky and doesn’t reckon with themselves. If the stars can’t humble him, neither can you.

We have this idea that love should hurt. That if it’s real, you’ll feel it ripping you apart at the seams, tearing your heart from your ribs, and pressing its palm on either side of you lungs. Leaving you breathless. And for a long time, I believed this. I let boys with big mouths and no ears hold me in their arms until I forgot how to breath on my own. Until I forgot who I was because it didn’t matter who I was. It mattered who he wanted. And it hurt. Losing myself. God, it hurt. But for a long time, I though that was love. And then I met you.

And even though it’s over, even though other boys have loved you, the first boy who loved you will be the only boy who holds your heart in his hands, feels it beat and breath without possession or power but a reverence you still struggle to understand, and then places it back into your chest and whispers, “Live.

You loved him.” It isn’t a question. He knows better.
     For a minute, maybe longer, I say nothing.
     Wind tugs across the sky, lilac fading into peach fading into dusty red clouds. The leaves on the tress are brown now, only days past Halloween, their edges folded in as if they have something to hold. Up here the air is so thin, but I can see for miles.
     Eventually I tell him, “I did.”
     “What happened?”
      I shrug. My lips linger at the rim of my wine glass, just on the edge of a sip. “We were just stupid kids.”
     (Stupid kids. Nervous kids. Awkward moments that folded into wonderful moments. Cam’s yappy dog and the park past midnight, surrounded by a warm cloud of smoke, where we’d remind ourselves that we were young and oh so alive.) 
     Luke is quiet for a moment. Waiting for more, I suppose. I wonder if he knows that I don’t open like a flower to sun. I wonder if he thinks about me like that: flowers and suns and anything more than a girl who wears nostalgia like a sweater in dead heat.
     “Is that all I get?” he asks.
     (Cam held my hand on the third floor of the hospital. He didn’t tell me it was going to be ok. He didn’t ask about my mom. He was just there. And every time someone else’s world shrank to the rapid rhythm of the beeps, his grip would tighten.)
     I don’t tell this to Luke. I tell him, “That’s all there is.” 
     A cluster of birds fan across the sky. Under his breath, he says, “Right.” 
     The hood of his Honda is suddenly too cold, and my lungs ache for a smoke. Luke slides off. His jaw is clenched, but I’m not worried. He hands out forgiveness like a priest. I tip the wine glass until every bitter drop rests inside me, churning.
     “Maybe you’ll tell me one day.” 
     “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
     But I think we both know better.


The way I see it, I never really knew you. I knew what you wanted me to know. That you drink your coffee black. That you wear socks in your sleep. That your dog likes to be fed at 5 in the morning. But you told me once, some blurry night, that you only drank your coffee black because you liked the way the barista looked at you when you ordered. With respect. A little awe. Just barely. Enough to feed your stupid pride. You also said that you didn’t date. Not usually. Not often. Not now. And later that same night, when you clutched onto my wrists and dragged me beneath your sheets for the third time, your stupid million dollar silk sheets, you said, maybe now. With you. Right here. Maybe now I’ll date.
And you did. We did. Of course, we did. You’d never met me before. Wicked smart. Calling your bullshit at 4 a.m. A waistline that let me match you in drinks. It was fun, out every night and wild in bed fun. but then, without either of us begging or asking or even wanting, it was more. It was staring at each other, wondering how the hell we’d gotten here. Tracing the planes of your face. Wishing I could hold onto this forever. This feeling. This person. Just this. But we weren’t forever material-we never had been-and when I caught you dragging down the skirt of some other girl, I wish I could say I was surprised.

For a while, you groveled. On your knees. Which was something I never thought I’d see, not in all my life. And you said you were sorry and stupid. So, so stupid. And then you said that you loved me. Loved me. That you were in love with me. And God, you almost had me there. I still wonder what might have happened if I’d let my knees buckle the way they so desperately wanted. If I’d let you hold me. Have me. Love me. Love me. Love. Love love love lovelovelovelovelveov.

You know, Michael, if you say a word too much for too long it stars to sound like nothing at all. Love. There, see what I mean? Love love love. lovelovelvoeelvoe. Love. Nothing at all.
What we had was something. Something wonderful, maybe. But It wasn’t love. At least, I hope it wasn’t. If that’s what all of the fuss is about, count me out. 
No. No, that wasn’t love. But damn was it close.  


The sun doesn’t feel quite right
on my skin anymore. As if a star,
galaxies beyond me, can be too close.
They think I’m crazy to lie instead
beneath the night sky, but I wonder
how anything could ever compare.
And they tell me it’s my loss as I’m
certain it is. You had bright eyes and
warm palms. Someday, a world of
people will wake just for you. Don’t
waste your time, I beg, watching the
girl who overslept, her legs tangled
in sheets. She waits for the moon to
watch streetlights turn to stars. Even
if, by chance, she wanders into your light,
know that she will never stop searching
for the shadows. Nocturnal. Let her go,
rise with others who ooo and ah. She
can’t see the universe beyond you, how
it flickers to life, if you stand in its way.
And she’ll resent you. She’ll despise
you. Though she’ll never know why.
She’ll only know that
you don’t feel quite right
on her skin anymore.

Sometimes, rainy day boys will smile at you,
and it might feel like love when they hold in
their arms and tell you they need you. But that
isn’t love. Not when he flags down the next taxi to
skim through the street lights, leaving torn pieces of
his tourist map in your fingers. Thank you, he’ll say.
And fun. They always call it fun. And you, darling, who
thought he was more, who always thinks people are so
much more, you will learn to hate the rain. For bringing
nice boys with hollow hands to your home while they
warm up. For letting you break your own damn heart.

Nie ma przypadkowych spotkań i ludzie też nie stają na drodze naszego życia, ot tak. Każdy człowiek zostaje nam dany po coś, aby czymś nas ubogacić, dopełnić, coś pokazać czy uświadomić. Poprzez ludzi dostajemy od życia tysiące szans na to, aby stać się lepszym człowiekiem lub aby temu człowiekowi pokazać coś, czego on do tej pory nie dostrzegł."
Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds it on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine into poison. Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Chases lovers into corners. Leave them longing. Dances wild and walks away, smiling.

It will hurt, but it will give you inspiration for writing poetry.



That affliction when you are only in love with the begginings of things.
when you learn sth wonderful about yourself and wonder what else you've been hiding.
Last nigh I dreamt of this place one more time.
even your breathing exectites me.

You look pretty, but you sound like a lie.

There are parts of you that want the sadness.Find them out. Ask them why.
what is now will soon be past.

you're never exactly the same, twice.

When I can’t sleep, I want to lay on the shore and stare at the stars. I want to watch crabs sneak around, unaware that the moon illuminates each grain of sand just for them.

The struggle is being 21 wanting intimacy and commitment when you were born into a generation of hookups and dissolutions.

because writing is soft and hard, all at once.
love doesn't always mean you should stay.
eyes that commit, this is what i am looking for.

When you truly love someone, you don’t burn their name for all to see if things don’t end up working out between you. You don’t turn them into a monster to make yourself feel better. You don’t grab onto anything you can to justify your actions and clear yourself of fault.
You deal with the pain with as much grace as possible, and you respect the memories you made with that person because they truly matter to you and what you felt was real. 

 My imagination will get me a passport to hell one day. 

 What else could I do?
You could try again. 

 That’s why I’m talking to you. You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect. 

just because someone desires you does not mean they value you. desire is the kind of things that eats you and leaves you starving.

'stay' is such a sensitive word.
We wear who stayed and who left in our skin, forever. 

peaceful. wild. I am both at the same time.

stay soft, it looks beautiful on you.

the lake is my happy place. wrócić!